


The power of love

by ylc



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: When Aziraphale gets recalled back to Heaven, all he expects to find is a boring desk job. With Gabriel constantly breathing down his neck, his only recourse is to act remorseful enough he might get sent back to Earth eventually. He thinks that pissing Gabriel off might work too, but he’s a little hesitant to actually try that. Still, if push comes to shove, he just might.But his new assignment isn’t what he’s expecting at all.And while he does not exactly dislike working with the Archangel Raphael to bring happiness to humans through the healing power of love, it makes him question a whole lot of things.First and foremost, his relationship with a certain ”enemy.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 91
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Big Bang. Art by mulasawala can be found [here](https://mobile.twitter.com/mulasawala/status/1225058686952857600?s=21). Also a special to eunyisadoran for beta-ing :)
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Good Omens Big Bang. Art by mulasawala can be found [here](https://mobile.twitter.com/mulasawala/status/1225058686952857600?s=21). Also a special to eunyisadoran for beta-ing :)
> 
> Enjoy!

"Recalled?! What is that supposed to mean?” Crowley demands to know, the slightest hint of panic in his tone. He’s trying to keep his calm for Aziraphale’s sake, the angel suspects, and while he appreciates it, it just makes him feel a hundred times more guilty. 

Aziraphale looks away, not able to hold Crowley’s stare, his unnecessary human stomach twisting in an unpleasant manner he can’t exactly describe and that he’d rather not think much about. There are certain matters, he feels, that are better left well alone.

“I would think it’s rather obvious,” he replies as calmly as he can, waving a hand dismissively. Crowley makes a face, evidently unhappy, looking somewhere between hurt and annoyed at Aziraphale’s pleasant tone. Aziraphale’s silly stomach twists once more. “My superiors feel some time away from Earth would be beneficial for me. They’re hoping that spending some time back at the Head Office will… _cleanse me_ of all corrupting influences.”

“Meaning myself,” the demon says, his lips twisting up in a mockery of a smile.

“Not just you, my dear,” Aziraphale attempts to soothe, reaching out to pat the demon’s knee. “They think I’ve got too used to _earthly pleasures.”_ Which, to be fair, might be somewhat true; Gabriel might actually be onto something even if his sudden concern isn’t one tiny bit honest.

Still, he does not wish to go back to Heaven. If he could, he would have said as much when he was informed of his reassignment, but Gabriel’s barely contained disdain, his quiet contempt, the way he regarded Aziraphale so coolly, had quickly made him see how much of an unwise move that’d be. It’s not like he cares about what Gabriel might think (not anymore anyway), but he does know the Archangel rather well and once an idea has taken root inside his mind, he’ll go to great lengths to get his way.

And given… well, _everything_ , Aziraphale figured it’d be better to proceed with caution.

“Surely we can do _something_ ” Crowley pleads, sounding painfully vulnerable, and Aziraphale’s stomach insists on performing yet more acrobatics. Good god, but his desperate tone _hurts_. “Last time--”

“I’m afraid we could not possibly pull that trick off once more,” Aziraphale says sadly, although he can’t help the small smile that comes unbidden to his lips as he thinks of Crowley’s little stunt to stop his last promotion, resulting in an indefinite posting on Earth. “Not now that they know of our… _association_.” Friendship might be a better word to describe their current relationship, but it’s not entirely accurate either, although why that is exactly, Aziraphale can not tell. “Besides, they’ve already sent my replacement in. He’s getting accustomed to my bookshop,” he adds mournfully, lips turning downward.

“What?!” Crowley demands, springing onto his feet. “There’s another angel? Here?!”

“At the bookshop,” Aziraphale corrects gently. “I do not believe you are in any immediate danger, dear. I did forbid him to follow me and, demoted as I might be, I still outrank a whole lot of angels.”

Crowley huffs, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine dealing with any other angel,” Crowley says softly, almost thoughtfully. Something hot and angry flares inside Aziraphale at the thought of _his demon_ being friendly towards another angel.

But then Crowley isn’t _his_ anything, not really, and if striking another deal with another angel will keep him out of trouble… well, who is Aziraphale to deny him that chance? It’s not like he’ll be around and who knows what sort of trouble Crowley could get in-- If he’s safer that way… 

“There is--” Aziraphale begins, and then interrupts himself sharply. It feels wrong to even think what he’s currently thinking but given the circumstances... “Maybe you could consider moving. You’re sort of retired, are you not?”

“So are you,” Crowley points out. “And yet Heaven has come knocking once more,” he adds bitterly and Aziraphale’s heart constricts painfully. 

“Yes, well…” he shrugs non committedly, at a loss for what to say. It’s true enough, he supposes. Even if he had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, he should have known better. “But I get the impression Hell is not big on _forgive and forget._ ” 

“Neither is Heaven,” Crowley tells him, his words dripping with bitterness, although some sadness lingers in his tone. “You know this is punishment.”

Yes, Aziraphale supposes he knows, but now is not the time to think about that. He has bigger concerns right now. “I-- I talked to Anathema last week. She knows of a nice little cottage near Tadfield that has just gone on sale and I said we would go, see if… I mean…” he shrugs once more and does his best to ignore Crowley’s heartbroken expression. “I wasn’t… I thought we could move. Start anew.”

“We still could,” Crowley says, suddenly sliding closer to him, looking so damn desperate, clasping Aziraphale’s hands between his. “We could. Together, we could--”

Aziraphale shakes his head, ignoring the pain blossoming inside his chest. He couldn’t, not now, not when it would only succeed in annoying Gabriel further and making things much more complicated. “It’s too late,” he murmurs softly. “I must go.”

“Aziraphale--” Crowley pleads, but the angel stands up, shaking his head once more, heading for the door without looking back. He knows that if he does he won’t be able to leave and he simply cannot stay.

It’s too late for that.

* * *

Staying, Aziraphale knows, was not an option. He wishes it was, of course, but he also knows defying direct orders has never been in his best interests, especially not now with the whole Apocalypse fiasco looming in the distance. For his sake, and most importantly, for Crowley’s, he’d better play nice for the time being.

Besides, he’s fairly certain Gabriel will get fed up with him soon enough to forget why he recalled Aziraphale in the first place and he’ll back on Earth in no time. He just needs to bid his time and wait.

So he walks into Heaven perfectly at ease, expression serene. It’s not ideal, of course, but it’s hardly unbearable. A few years at most and maybe even less. Given how little Gabriel likes humans in general and how many human mannerisms Aziraphale has picked over the centuries, it’ll be over soon enough.

In retrospect, he’ll think he should have known it couldn’t possibly be that easy. Gabriel is, after all, terribly _devious_ for angel.

He should have known better, really.


	2. Reassignment

“Ah, Aziraphale. Late again, I see.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, willing himself not to show any trace of annoyance. _You did not specify a time_ , he wants to say but he figures it’s too early to start picking up fights with Gabriel, especially over something so silly.

“Please accept my apology.” Wearing his best fake smile, he asks “Should we get started?”, eager to get his duties assigned so he might start figuring out the best way to get Gabriel to send him back to Earth.

“In the future, kindly try to stick to the schedule,” Gabriel says and Aziraphale tries his best not to bristle. “So many things would go much smoother if you did.” he adds, the smile that adorns his lips having a dangerous edge that makes Aziraphale uneasy, making his stomach drop. “Follow me,” the Archangel demands and Aziraphale finds himself with no choice but follow as Gabriel starts walking.

Heaven is just as empty and sterile as the last time he was here and he wonders why he never noticed it before. Earth is filled with so many people these days you practically can’t go anywhere without bumping into someone. While it can be inconvenient at times, now that he’s here, Aziraphale finds himself missing the buzz of people surrounding him.

Gabriel leads the way confidently, his long legs carrying him easily. Aziraphale finds himself practically running in an effort to keep up with him. From the corner of his eye he thinks he catches sight of Gabriel’s smirk but when he actually turns to look, the Archangel’s face is as congenial as ever.

“Here we are,” Gabriel announces, finally coming to stop at one of Heaven’s many offices. It’s a little distant from the part of Heaven Aziraphale is more familiar with, well away from the more bureaucratic side Gabriel runs with debatable efficiency. Aziraphale’s blood runs cold after realizing Gabriel intends to transfer him into another division and it occurs to him that getting out of this new assignment might be more difficult than he originally thought.

Gabriel smiles, throwing the door open and stepping in confidently. Aziraphale closes his eyes, preparing himself for whatever might come and follows him in, conceding defeat for the time being.

“Ah, dear sister. We’re--”

“Hush!” A feminine voice comes from within and Gabriel’s expression morphs to one of annoyance. He is evidently not used to being hushed and it takes every bit of Aziraphale’s self control not to chuckle at the Archangel’s indignated expression.

The room isn’t terribly big and, in all honesty, it’s awfully cluttered. There’s a desk in the far corner, papers overflowing its whole surface. There’s an executive office chair too, also buried underneath a pile of documents. 

A long couch takes up the center of the room; it looks well used, but comfortable, not unlike the one Aziraphale had at his bookstore. There are a couple of blankets draped over the back and on the small side table next to it sits a mug of cocoa that looks like it was abandoned a long time ago.

Music is playing from a couple of speakers on the ceiling -- some of that modern be-bop that Aziraphale has no hope of recognizing. It had been playing softly enough to fade into the background, but it seems to be increasing its volume the longer they stay inside.

A scare tactic, Aziraphale suspects. Not one he’d have used to get rid of insistent customers, but probably effective enough, judging by Gabriel’s increasingly sour expression.

The room’s main feature of interest is a giant screen that covers one of the walls. It is, by far, the most modern object in the room, although it doesn’t exactly look well cared for: there are a couple of dents here and there, as if someone had thrown something heavy against it in a fit of anger. Currently, there’s another Archangel standing in front of it, bouncing on the balls of her feet, as she watches it with enraptured attention. 

Her long auburn hair flows wildly across her back and something inside Aziraphale twists, remembering another redhead. He has always liked Crowley’s hair, particularly when he wore it long, although of course he never voiced those thoughts aloud. Often enough he found himself wondering what it’d be like to card his fingers through those luxurious curls and whether or not Crowley would allow it, whether or not he’d actually _enjoy it_ and--

And that’s definitely a line of thought he ought not to be contemplating _now._

“Raphael--” Gabriel begins, and the Archangel hushes him once more, throwing an annoyed glare in his direction. She does a double take when she notices Aziraphale, a light frown on her face, but she seems to quickly determine that whatever is happening on the screen is more important.

Aziraphale watches the Archangel, a little surprised and a bit in awe. Raphael’s… _absence_ during Heaven’s roll calls is a matter of great speculation, has been ever since the Rebellion. There’s no such thing as an angel going _rogue_ , (not unless they Fell, of course) but if the concept existed, that would be the best way to describe the Archangel’s situation.

As far as Aziraphale knows, no one has seen the Archangel in centuries, making many question whether or not she’s still part of the Heavenly Court. What exactly happened to make her go rogue is another question no one seems to have a satisfactory answer to and most would rather not speculate. Her whole flock did disappear after the Rebellion (dead or Fallen, no one really knew) so most agreed it had something to do with that.

Many had suggested the former Archangel of healing had became a Prince of Hell, or a Duke at the very least: so twisted up inside she was impossible to recognize anymore. Aziraphale hadn’t been a fan of the theory; even without personally knowing Raphael, it had stricken him as unlikely and it seems he was right. 

Still, judging by the downtwist of Gabriel’s lips and the way he’s narrowed his eyes at her attitude, _having gone rogue_ might be an apt description.

Aziraphale’s lips curve upwards slightly. Of course, Gabriel would think that putting a couple of rebels together is the best way to deal with the situation.

No way that could backfire at _all._

“Come on, come on,” Raphael murmurs, bouncing more energetically, leaning closer to the screen, somewhere between eager and downright frustrated. The dents make an awful lot more sense now; she looks in the verge of throwing something any moment. “Just do it already!”

On the screen, two humans are conversing. The younger woman’s face is completely flushed, a coy smile playing on her lips despite her obvious nerves. Her companion, a slightly older woman, is just as flushed and as nervous, but she finally seems to gather her courage and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the other’s lips. “Yes!” Raphael exclaims, clapping her hands and doing a merry dance. “Yes, yes, yes!”

Gabriel huffs, rolling his eyes dramatically, and that seems to remind the other Archangel she’s not alone, putting an end to her happy dance. “Still a killjoy, I see,” she says, expression perfectly blank as she turns to face Gabriel, arms crossed over her chest just a touch defensively. There’s no happiness left in her expression, in fact, a deep seated sadness has swept over her harmonious features.

“I simply don’t see what you find so exciting about… this,” Gabriel says, gesturing at the screen disdainfully. “Humans’ mating practices are disgusting.”

“It’s not their _mating practices_ which interest me,” Raphael replies, rolling her eyes dramatically. “But I don’t expect YOU to understand,” she adds, tone full of disdain, uncrossing her arms to wave a hand dismissively. “Love is, tragically, beyond your comprehension dear brother.”

The room is vibrating with actinic energy and Aziraphale takes a step back, unwilling to get in the middle of a confrontation between two Archangels. There’s some history here, as ancient as time itself (maybe even older than that) and while curious, Aziraphale is no eager to be even remotely part of it.

In his attempt to escape unnoticed though, he manages to stumble over a rusty metal filing cabinets, and the noise he makes manages to distract the Archangels from one another, turning their attention back to him.

 _Oh, bugger_ , Aziraphale thinks, freezing in place as the Archangels’ focus turns on him. 

“And to what I owe the _pleasure_ of your impromptu visit, brother dear?” Raphael asks, looking at Gabriel from the corner of her eye, one eyebrow raised challengingly, as she gives Aziraphale a once over. It’s a little unsettling and Aziraphale shifts nervously, all too accustomed to being found lacking. 

“Ah, yes,” Gabriel says, recovering his cool, brushing imaginary wrinkles off his suit, his usually pleasant (but fake) smile back in place. “Remember how you keep pestering me about needing an assistant? Well, here he is,” he claps a hand over Aziraphale’s shoulder, pushing him forward non-to-gently and the angel is hard pressed not to flinch. “This is Aziraphale, he’s been Earthbound--”

“I know who he is,” she replies sharply, eyes narrowing. “Everyone in Heaven knows who he is,” she adds with the slightest hint of a smirk, and Gabriel’s congenial smile drops. “And I know the game you’re playing, Gabriel.” She steps closer to the Archangel, expression menacing. Aziraphale watches silently, unsure whether the fact that Raphael knows him is a good thing or not. “You will not use me for your petty revenge.”

“I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about, _dearest sister_ ,” Gabriel says, smiling once again, although there’s a slight edge to it. Nerves, Aziraphale would think, except Gabriel is never nervous. “I simply thought that if anyone could appreciate your work, it would be someone who likes humans as much as you do.”

“Of course,” she replies, with a curt tone that suggests she doesn’t believe it, not even for a second, pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance. “You’re just being the helpful, darling brother you always are,” she says, and Gabriel narrows his eyes at her. Raphael ignores him with practiced ease, turning to look at Aziraphale, a considering expression on her face. Slowly, it shifts to something more mischievous and Aziraphale can’t help it -- he gulps. “This is going to backfire on you so hard,” she says, throwing a smirk at Gabriel. “ _Absence just makes the heart grow fonder.”_

Gabriel huffs. “You’re being ridiculous,” he informs her pretentiously, and Raphael’s smirk only widens. For his part, Aziraphale does his best to pretend he does not understand her implication and internally tries not to panic.

Besides, he’s certain he misunderstood. She can’t mean what he thinks she means because… well. She just couldn’t. He must have misunderstood.

Raphael breaks the brief, tense silence between her and Gabriel with a sharp “Very well,” and a brisk clap of her hands. “I’ll take him,” she adds with a smile that’s too much teeth for Aziraphale’s comfort. He gulps once more, although he tries to keep his expression as blank as possible. “Now. Off you go!” she tells Gabriel, pointing at the door, and under normal circumstances, Aziraphale suspects the Archangel would be annoyed at the dismissal. Right now though he looks entirely too smug, which can’t be any good and the fact that he leaves without further comment, only cements Aziraphale’s conviction that he’s in big trouble.

He turns to Raphael, whose thoughtful expression only makes him more nervous, truth be told.

Just what exactly has he gotten himself into?

* * *

“Sorry about that,” Raphael says, once the door has closed after Gabriel. “As you can see, Gabriel and I don’t exactly see eye to eye anymore.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, which are filled with unfathomable sadness. “Sorry you got dragged into this mess.”

Aziraphale considers his answer thoughtfully. “I think I got myself into this mess on my own,” he replies, in a slightly awkward attempt of humor, smile just a tad self deprecating.

Raphael huffs, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Stopping an Apocalypse was bound to get you in trouble,” she agrees. “But now you’re here and that’s what matters. I really could do with an assistant and I-- Are you kidding me?!” she exclaims, something on the screen having dragged her attention away. The screen is displaying a world map, with several blinking dots of various colors scattered across it. One in particular has turned a bright red colour. “Really, John? Really?!” she demands, and as her fingertips press the blinking dot,a new window opens. “I don’t even know why I bother with you anymore.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to ask if he can help, although he has no idea what Raphael is so angry about. The screen now shows an older man sitting at a coffee shop, watching forlornly as a woman leaves. “You can’t be this dense,” Raphael murmurs darkly. “You really can’t.”

“Erm…” Aziraphale begins and the Archangel turns to him with a startled expression, seemingly having forgotten about his presence.

“Oh! Right! Sorry! Umm… it’s just…” she gestures vaguely, her frustration evident. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you? I just need to-- it’ll be a minute tops, promise. I think there’s a tea-thingy… somewhere,” she adds, vaguely pointing in the direction of the cluttered desk.

Aziraphale watches for a beat, feeling a bit at odds, but it quickly becomes clear Raphael has forgotten all about him, busy cursing at the screen. _How improper_ , Aziraphale thinks, distantly amused,a small smile growing on his lips. 

He likes Raphael, he’s decided.

But there’s no denying she’s a bit… odd.

* * *

“That’s the problem, of course,” Raphael tells him some time later, dropping herself next to him on the couch. “You leave them alone for a second and they go and make a right mess out of things.”

Aziraphale nods noncommittally, taking a sip of his drink. He gave up on finding the teapot after a while and decided to simply miracle himself a fresh cup. He had tried to offer Raphael one too, but she had been too busy with her blinking dots to pay him any mind. Her “just one minute” turned into a couple of hours as more flashing red dots appeared on screen. Aziraphale is no closer to knowing exactly what she was doing, but has kept himself entertained by sorting through the many documents on the desk, mostly old memos from Gabriel and Co. He took petty pleasure in tearing them to pieces.

“Want some popcorn?” she asks, as a bowl appears between them.

“No, thank you,” he replies politely and Raphael hums, pulling the bowl onto her lap. As he went through her old documents, he caught sight of several assorted scenes being shown on the screen, but he’s no closer to understanding what exactly is what Raphael does-- she is, after all, the patron Archangel of doctors and healers but what he’s seen so far of her work has nothing to do with that.

He looks at the screen, which is currently showing a couple of teens in what seems like the world’s most awkward date. They both seem keen enough and the boy is trying so hard that it’s endearing while also painful to watch.

“The problem with them meeting this young,” Raphael tells him, leaning towards him conspiratorially. “Is that they’re so awkward. It’s cute but it can be physically painful to watch.”

That, Aziraphale thinks, it’s his cue. “What exactly are we watching and why does it matter?” he asks, then cringes a little. Not as smooth as he had hoped, not by far.

“Oh!” the Archangel exclaims, sitting a bit straighter. “Right! Sorry, I got a little caught up with work.” She smiles sheepishly, pushing her hair away from her face. “Well, you know I’m the patron Archangel of healers, right?” Aziraphale nods and she smiles wryly. “Well, you see, that’s a little frowned upon nowadays. No more miracle cures, no medical miracles, no divine inspiration for medical researchers. Not unless it’s pre-authorized.” She scrunches her nose, clearly annoyed, pulling out what looks like a pager from one of her pockets. “This thing rarely rings nowadays.”

Aziraphale frowns. That explains an awful lot of things, actually, but it makes very little sense to him. “But why?” he finds himself asking and the Archangel looks at him, lips curving in a sad smile.

“Beats me,” she replies airily. “Upper management nonsense, or what passes for upper management these days.” She puts the pager away, a brief look of pain flashing across her features. “Let’s not think about that much. It’s too depressing if you stop to think about it for long.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest, although he has no real idea what he’s going to say, but Raphael beats him to it. “Anyway, as it happens, I’m also the patron Archangel of lovers and that, my friend, is what you see here,” she says, pointing at the giant screen with a flourish of her hand.

Aziraphale nods slowly, uncertain. The Archangel rolls her eyes fondly, turning on her seat so they’re facing one another. “Alright, let’s talk business. What do you know about soulmates?”

“They’re a myth,” Aziraphale replies dismissively. “An invention born out of humans’ creativity and their need to pair-bond.”

“Wow. For someone who’s been around humans since their creation that’s a very angelic answer,” Raphael says with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “The kind of answer I’d have expected from Gabriel, truth be told.”

“That’s not fair at all,” Aziraphale protests, slightly offended by the comparison. “It’s the truth. Souls are perfectly whole on their own.”

“True,” Raphael agrees. “And the concept, as such, is a completely human invention quite a romantic one. A common motive in their stories in all their shapes and forms. I’m partial to the myth of the red thread,” she adds with a dreamy expression on her face. “But as you pointed out, there’s no such thing as the other half of a soul.”

She leans back on her seat, twisting one lock of hair around her finger. “Humans tend towards pair-bonding and they certainly love their romance, but while the concept isn’t quite right, it’s not completely wrong either. While two souls might not be matching halves, they can still be complementary. A perfect fit for those parts that the other lacks, so they might accomplish the impossible, like, I don’t know, stopping a cataclysmic event of epic proportions.” Aziraphale is listening, not fully convinced, and Raphael grins mischievously. “The match often comes in pairs, sometimes in larger groups. But the point is-- it’s in everyone best interests that they find each other.”

Aziraphale frowns, considering. “What about free will?”

“Aha!” Raphael exclaims, bolting out of her seat and starting to pace. “That’s where it gets tricky, of course! Just because two-- or more-- people are meant to be together, it doesn’t mean they’ll end up together. Love is unpredictable.” She claps her hands together, grinning widely. “That’s why it’s so much fun!”

She stands up, closing the open window and opening another, now showing a world map. “These are my pet projects. Of course I’m sometimes obliged to work with specific humans, because of some _upper management nonsense_ , but for the most part I’m left to my own devices.”

“You… play matchmaker to humans?” Aziraphale says slowly, uncertain he has really understood and Raphael grins.

“Bingo! Now you’re getting it!”

Aziraphale considers this thoughtfully, wrinkles forming on his forehead as he tries to puzzle it out. It seems… well. This is the Archangel Raphael, patron Archangel of doctors and healers and it feels like she should be attending more pressing matters than _matchmaking_.

“You don’t understand,” Raphael says. “But you will! And, with any luck, this’ll be the last missing piece of that bothersome puzzle.” She grins, bouncing onto the balls of her feet. “My favorite couple finally together!”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to ask more questions and promptly decides against it. He does not wish to spoil Raphael’s good mood, although he still doesn’t really understand and is far from convinced.

“I can’t do much healing these days,” Raphael says softly, running her fingers through her hair, looking slightly frustrated. “Not traditional healing, at any rate. But love, Aziraphale, is its own kind of medicine. And in the right dose, in the right moment, it can save more lives than traditional medicine ever could.”

Aziraphale stares at the Archangel, taken aback by her sudden serious tone and considers her words. Yes, he’s witnessed as much: love works its own kind of magic in humans. There’s even a song, he thinks, something about just needing love?

“I don’t understand yet,” he says finally. “But I think I’d like to.”

“Yay!” Raphael exclaims cheerfully, clapping her hands together once more. “This will be fun, you’ll see!”

Aziraphale smiles, although there’s a sad edge to it. On one hand, it does sound interesting if nothing else, but on the other… well, he can’t exactly ignore the voice in the back of his head that’s informing him, on no uncertain terms, that he would much rather be back on Earth.

 _With Crowley_ , another voice whispers, and Aziraphale hurries to shake off the bothersome thought. He’ll miss Earth, that’s for sure and how considering how quickly things keep changing nowadays, he imagines he’ll miss a great lot of developments. God knows he has trouble keeping up with the times; not like Crowley, who has always seemed to fit so flawlessly among humans. And there it is, he supposes, the real (and simple) reason for his reluctance to be stuck in Heaven once more: Crowley isn’t here.

Not that that can be helped, of course. Demons do not belong in Heaven, no more than angels belong in Hell and so… so…

 _It’s never been meant to be_ , Aziraphale thinks miserably, staring at the blinking dots on the screen. He’s always known as much, of course, but for the most part, he can ignore it well enough. Whenever the thought sneaks upon him though, the wound reopens and hurts afresh.

Lost in his own thoughts, he fails to notice the look on Raphael’s face.

 _Boy, is he dense,_ the Archangel thinks.

Well, she’s never been one to shy away from a challenge. And after 6000 years, something’s gotta give.


	3. Chapter 3

Any romance worth its salt includes three basic ingredients: the dashing hero, their beloved and the matchmaker. An over-involved friend, a concerned sibling, an overbearing parent. No romance is truly complete without them.

Even Aziraphale, who wouldn’t claim to be an expert on the genre, knows that. And, as he’s coming to learn, there’s at least one good reason for that; there is something undeniably thrilling about playing matchmaker.

But, as anyone actually familiar with the genre will tell you, matchmakers usually have their work cut out for them. The hero and their beloved never make it easy, usually too caught up in their own heads to see what’s right in front of them.

“She cannot be this dense,” Aziraphale says, gesturing at the screen. From her place on the couch, Raphael snorts. “I mean-- he couldn’t be more obvious if he carried a sign with “I love you” written on it. You’d have to be blind not to notice.”

“You’d think,” Raphael agrees, examining her empty cocoa mug thoughtfully. “In Katherine’s defense though, John’s had, like, a hundred opportunities to properly confess so-- they’re both to blame, really.”

Aziraphale hmms. “And you honestly think that sending him off to the other side of the ocean is going to help? If anything--”

“ _Absence makes the heart grow fonder,_ ” Raphael replies, effectively silencing Aziraphale as he recalls the first time he heard her utter the phrase. “Here’s the thing: they’re used to seeing each other every day, even if not in the capacity they both want, so they’ve settled down. They’re content. They’re not going to make a frigging move because they’re friends and _that’s nice_ and surely _that’s enough_ and _why complicate things_? But if we shake things up a bit--”

“Wouldn’t introducing someone new do the same thing, though?” Aziraphale asks, turning his attention back to the screen, where Katherine is gazing longingly at John’s empty spot in the cafeteria. “I just-- I mean-- pulling them apart seems a bit--”

He’s not thinking of Crowley and their own separation. _He isn’t_. But-- “Ah, jealousy,” Raphael says wistfully, “you’ve got so much to learn, my sweet summer child. Of course jealousy is a lovely device to get a romance moving, but it’s entirely too easy for it to backfire.” She stands up, coming to stand next to Aziraphale in front of the big screen. “Katherine’s lack of self confidence would never withstand it. She’d think to herself it was simply never meant to be.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to reply-- although what exactly, he’s not sure-- when the screen changes to show the world’s map and a blinking dot in bright red.

“Argh, Amir!” they both exclaim in frustration at the same time.

A matchmaker’s work is never done.

* * *

“It’s curious,” Raphael comments, twirling her glass of wine thoughtfully. “For all their romanticism, humans tend to freeze when faced with the chance of actually finding love.” She leans back on her seat, considering. “I wonder why.”

“Fear, mostly,” Aziraphale replies distractedly, lips turned downwards as they watch the events taking place on the screen-- A couple parts and this time, Aziraphale thinks, it’s for good. “Even when you’re more or less sure you’re not alone in your feelings, change can be… terrifying. And when there are outside factors at play… well. It’s easier to make excuses.” That, he thinks, is also true for ethereal and occult beings, although he hurries to bury that thought in the depths of his mind.

“Huh,” Raphael says, taking a sip of her drink. “It doesn’t make that much sense to me. If I was ever presented with the chance-- I mean, taking the chance is precisely part of the charm, isn’t it? If you’re not terrified of losing someone, then what’s the point?”

“That’s not how it works,” Aziraphale replies mournfully, taking a long gulp of his own drink. “Something, no matter how little, is better than nothing.” It occurs him he might be a little drunk and so his tongue has gotten a little loose, but he’s upset by the afternoon’s events and drinking has always been his go-to solution when upset.

 _Poor Amir_ , he thinks.

“Silence might be just as costly, though,” Raphael reflects, pointing at the screen and Aziraphale nods, conceding the point. Silence has its own cost and sometimes it’s higher than the one extracted from an actual confession, but it’s hard to think logically when you’re consumed by fear.

They sit quietly for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. “Have you been in love, then?” Raphael asks, breaking the silence, something in her tone making Aziraphale frown. 

“I’m an angel,” he replies, discreetly sobering up a little. They are entering dangerous territory and it’s better to approach with caution. Raphael is very different from Gabriel, that much is true, but there are certain things that Aziraphale is certain no other angel would approve of, no matter how understanding they are. “I love every one of God’s creations.”

Raphael snorts. “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she replies, lying down and taking over the whole couch, making Aziraphale retreat to the far corner, although her feet end on his lap all the same. “But that’s alright. Keep your secrets, for now, although know they aren’t actually secrets.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, refilling his glass in contemplative silence. Even if his secrets aren’t so secret, he can make himself believe they are as long as they don’t speak them out loud.

After all, silence is key when it comes to keeping secrets, isn’t it?

* * *

It’d be reasonable to think that Aziraphale is simply oblivious to his feelings for a certain Enemy. He certainly acts that way, staring bewilderedly at anyone who brings the subject up. If pressed, he might go as far as admit Crowley is his friend and that he cares for him very much, but nothing more.

So yes, it’d be easy to assume he’s simply oblivious.

But then you would be mistaken.

Aziraphale recognized his feelings rather early on in their long acquaintance and promptly tucked that thought away. It terrified him: he’s an angel, after all, he’s supposed to love all of God’s creations (including demons, he believes, although his fellow angels would certainly disagree with him on that point). Such love, however, it’s meant to be in a distant sort of way. All-encompassing but never specific. He’s not meant to love someone above all others. 

But he did and, while it took him a bit, he eventually came to terms with it.

Then why, you would wonder, would he pretend obliviousness? What’s to gain by pretending he does not recognize the feeling burning in his chest, whenever he as much as glances at Crowley? What is he afraid of?

The easiest answer and the one Aziraphale would give if he had somehow been pressured into revealing this much, would be that he’s afraid of rejection. As he told Raphael, _something_ is better than _nothing_. He knows Crowley values him as a friend and they’re good friends, so why upset the status quo and risk losing him completely?

But that would be a lie. Because he does know how Crowley feels too; hard not to notice when every single one of the baby steps he’s taken towards they becoming closer, has been met with the demon’s confident strides. Crowley loves him too, just as much as Aziraphale, maybe even more. Despite his protestations to the contrary, between the two of them, Crowley has the biggest heart.

Then _why_ , you would ask.

Aziraphale stares at the screen, guarding his thoughts carefully. Archangels cannot read minds, as far as he knows, but one can never be too careful. Raphael is pretending to watch the screen with as much enraptured attention as himself, but a slight considering frown mars her features, suggesting she’s distracted by something else. The sidelong looks she throws in Aziraphale’s direction every time she thinks he isn’t looking, suggest he might be that something else.

His eyes focus on the screen once more, where two young women are trading jokes over a bottle of wine. Their cheeks are flushed, both laughing merrily, their knees bumping underneath the table every time they move. They’re happy, both exuding contentment and yet -- there’s tension between them, although both are so used to it by now that neither allows it to bother them or take away from their enjoyment of their time together. Their longing, desperate and terrible as it is, remains buried deep within.

Their families would never approve and they both know it. Should they ever find out, the consequences would be dramatic; they’d be pulled apart, never to see each other again. They could, of course, conduct a secret affair, but neither is willing to compromise their current relationship like that: they either want it all or nothing. 

They both know that while an affair would make them happier in the short term, they’d grow resentful and restless; that no matter how careful they are so they won’t be found out, they’d eventually get sloppy. They know that secrets always come to light and so it’s better for some things to remain unacknowledged.

Aziraphale agrees with them. It’s simply not worth it.

* * *

“And here we are!” Raphael says, throwing the door open dramatically. She strides into the new room confidently and Aziraphale follows, looking around curiously.

The room Raphael has shown him to looks, for all intents and purposes, like a storage room. It’s cluttered with several bits of old furniture and the debris of various celestial structures. Aziraphale frowns; he did not know there were any storage rooms in Heaven and, considering how disapproving his superiors always were about his tendency to hoard books and trinkets, he had assumed this kind of clutter was somewhat frown upon.

“What are we doing here?” he asks, just as Raphael is pulling what looks like a blanket off a big piece of machinery. If Aziraphale was more familiar with Earth’s gaming culture, he’d recognize the curious and uncomfortable chair as one of those humans used to play virtual reality games several years ago. “What’s that?”

“This, my dear child, is a dream-walking machine,” Raphael explains, grinning madly. “It was Gabriel’s, actually, but he never uses it anymore and what he doesn’t know cannot possibly hurt him, so--”

Aziraphale blinks, processing the information. “Why did Gabriel had a dream-walking machine?” is the first question that pops into mind, although he quickly realizes that’s not the most important thing here.

“Divine revelations and what-not,” Raphael replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I sometimes use it for delivering a bit of divine inspiration myself, although one must be careful. Wouldn’t want to intervene with the Great Plan and all that nonsense,” she rolls her eyes dramatically while Aziraphale tries not to fidget at the mention of not intervening with the Great Plan. “But mostly, dream-walking is fun. Humans have the most bizarre dreams and the landscaping is really something else. You’ll like it, I think.”

Aziraphale frowns, uncertain. “What--?”

“It’s just-- well,” Raphael interrupts before he can properly formulate his thoughts. “We’ve had a rather crappy day, don’t you agree? And I thought a little fun might be in order.”

That, Aziraphale thinks, is an awfully _human_ attitude, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. It’d be hypocritical of him to judge, he thinks, considering all the indulgent eating and drinking he and Crowley did whenever things weren’t going very well.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” she says, clapping her hands together. “I’ll be--”

“Wait,” Aziraphale says, a little panicky. “I thought-- you meant for just me?”

“Well, yes,” Raphael says with a shrug of her shoulders. “I’m used to humans messing up their love lives so I’m a bit immune to it by now, but you’re not so… unaffected.”

Aziraphale blinks, processing. “I-- I don’t know--”

“Oh, it’s easy!” Raphael argues cheerfully. “You just put the helm on, think of someone very hard and if they’re sleeping… _voilá_. Dream sharing!” She smiles, bouncing on her feet a little. “You’ll be fine. In the meantime, I’ll go attend a meeting and keep the rest of the Archangels distracted, in case you accidentally end up delivering some divine inspiration, how about that?”

“I thought you didn’t attend meetings anymore.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Raphael replies airily. “But that’s why it’ll be such a good distraction. I’ll give Gabriel a right fright if nothing else.” She grins rakishly, mischief dancing in her eyes. “It’ll be fun for me too.”

Aziraphale bites his lip gently, considering. He’s curious, at the very least, and how could it hurt? “Alright,” he agrees softly, and Raphael grins in response, a sparkle in her eye Aziraphale isn’t sure how to interpret.

It’ll be fine, he reassures himself.

So far nothing terrible has happened and, with any luck, it’ll continue like that. He believes he can trust Raphael, even if there are certain things, certain _feelings,_ he has kept closely guarded.

To be fair though, those are things he hides even from himself.

* * *

Human minds are too dynamic to ever really be still, even in their sleep, which is of course what allows them to dream. Most dreams are built out of memories: sometimes bits and pieces mashed together to construct better outcomes, sometimes to explore possibilities. Humans often reconstruct their memories in their dreams, often to make them less painful, more hopeful, to paint themselves in a better light. That’s of course why memories can hardly ever be trusted; they’re usually dream reconstructions.

There are other types of dreams, of course, those that are unfounded in reality and which are, frankly, much more entertaining precisely because of that. Human minds are built to have a passion for fictional stories, for the impossible and the inexplicable even if some humans might not acknowledge it. Aziraphale chooses to entertain himself in these second type of dreams. He has quite a passion for stories himself and the subconscious human mind, unbonded by logic are fertile ground for them.

The problem with dreams though, is that since they’re not required to follow logic, they usually don’t follow a clear sequence. For those who aren’t actually involved in the dream, for those watching from outside, so to speak, it can be very frustrating since the end of the dream often is quite a bit confusing and unresolved.

Incidentally, this is why Aziraphale doesn’t watch TV shows. He finds it most annoying when plot lines get abandoned and he hates the lack of closure he’s left with.

Aziraphale sighs, pulling the helmet off after a particularly frustrating dream. Dreamwalking is a curious experience; it’s like watching a movie where you can actually intervene if you so wish. But Aziraphale has kept mostly to himself, simply enjoying the fascinating and often convoluted dreams taking place.

He thinks about what Raphael said, about delivering some divine inspiration. He supposes he could. He has, after all, being entertaining himself with the dreams of the humans he’s come to know through the routine observation he does with the Archangel, but somehow it feels a bit like cheating. Also, unlike Raphael, who is so caught up with the possibility of love and all it brings that she does not particularly care about consequences, Aziraphale actually acknowledges the risk of romantic endeavours. And he’s not exactly partial to the idea of interfering with the humans’ decisions.

The problem, he reflects, is that Raphael is thoroughly familiar with the concept of love _in theory,_ but having never quite experienced it herself, she fails to see why someone might turn their back on it. Humans understand that sometimes people are not meant to be together, even if they are ostensibly a perfect fit.

His thoughts wander unbidden to Crowley, as they tend to do when he finds himself thinking on the subject of love and he holds back a sigh. “There’s no use crying over spilled milk,” as the humans say, and he guesses that’s true: that part of his life is over now and what he did or didn’t do is all in the past. Regret serves no purpose at all.

He does hope one day he’ll get to go back to Earth, of course, but that day feels far away. Millennia are but a blink of an eye for an angel as himself, but time does pass and it’s especially easy to notice while on Earth. He’s keeping busy well enough up in Heaven, but who knows what Crowley is up to nowadays? Who’s not to say he might forget all about the angel that left? Who’s to say that things between them won’t change the longer they stay apart?

He rubs his breastbone absentmindedly, soothing away the phantom pain. He’s an angel, so it’s not as if he has a real heart to break. He knows he loves Crowley, has known that for a very long time, but he had also known that his love must remain unspoken. Their friendship, even though he had to deny that was what it was, had to be enough. Asking for more would be greedy and greed is a Deadly Sin.

But if he had asked-- if he had ever voiced his feelings out loud--

No. It doesn’t matter; it hadn’t mattered then and it certainly doesn’t matter now. Being a demon’s friend was pushing it, to be even more would have been too much of a risk. He never indulged himself in thoughts of what might have been when he was on Earth, why should he start indulging now?

 _Absence makes the heart grow fonder,_ Raphael has said often enough, and while that might be true for humans, Aziraphale is an angel. He understands a little too well what’s at stake here.

It might be for the better, he thinks miserably. Given enough time and with the distance between them--

Well. Time heals all wounds, doesn’t it?

His eyes drop to the helmet and he bites his lip gently. To his knowledge, angels do not dream because they don’t sleep. Demons, being the same stock originally, wouldn’t either, but he does know for a fact that Crowley _enjoys_ sleeping, so maybe--

It’s madness, of course. A most ludicrous thought, really.

And yet he finds himself reaching out for the helmet and putting it on, all the same. 

* * *

Aziraphale blinks, looking around him curiously. It did work, he thinks, because he’s definitely inside a dream, but whether or not he’s in the right dream remains to be seen.

He’s in St. James Park, he quickly realizes, on a particularly nice day. In fact, the day is so nice that it cannot possibly be real: London has never seen such a bright, sunny day.

The park is mostly deserted, just a few people milling about. Aziraphale walks down the familiar path leading to the duck pond, marvelling at how realistic the whole thing looks. The human dreams he had experienced before weren’t so detailed; the background never so sharp. Feeling a bit disoriented, he tries to remember this is a dream,not reality.

He finds Crowley by their usual spot, staring at the swimming ducks absentmindedly. He looks his usual self, which is to say he looks unfairly handsome and Aziraphale’s heart gives a little flutter. The demon doesn’t notice his presence, busy as he is sinking poor unsuspecting ducks and chuckling to himself when the ducks quack offendely after being let go.

“My dear, is that really necessary?” he asks, coming to stand next to him and Crowley turns, an easy smile on his lips.

“Oh, definitely,” Crowley replies cheerfully. “You weren’t around to thwart me. I saw my chance and I took it.”

Aziraphale shakes his head disapprovingly, but it’s easy to see in his eyes that he’s amused. “Really, Crowley. I cannot leave you alone for a single second, can I?”

“You really shouldn’t,” the demon agrees easily, turning to fully face him. “Who knows what sort of trouble I might start if you do?” He’s stepped closer, much closer, one hand coming to cup Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Wha-- What are you doing?” Aziraphale manages to stutter out as Crowley leans forward, his lips hovering over his, and as much as he longs to close the distance between them, Aziraphale knows better.

“Well, if you don’t want me making havoc, you should keep me otherwise entertained,” Crowley replies, sealing his lips over the angel’s. The kiss is chaste, but it leaves Aziraphale’s insides burning all the same.

“I-- I don’t think--” Aziraphale says once he pulls away, blushing madly, knowing he ought to protest, but not really wanting to.

“No, no,” Crowley says softly, his hands cradling Aziraphale’s face with infinite gentleness. “You’re supposed to ask what I’d suggest we do to entertain ourselves. Don’t go changing the script of a perfectly lovely dream, Aziraphale. We’ve got this one well rehearsed.”

Oh, right. This is a dream and Crowley thinks-- Crowley thinks--

Oh dear.

Crowley sighs, letting go of his face and resting his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulders instead. He presses their foreheads together as a depressed sigh leaves his lips. “ _Fuck._ This isn’t working as I hoped it would,” he murmurs softly, defeated. “Now I can’t even have you in my dreams. I miss you so, angel.”

“I miss you too,” Aziraphale replies, without thinking for once, and before Aziraphale can start panicking, Crowley smiles self deprecatingly.

“Of course you’d say that,” he complains, pulling away so quickly that he leaves Aziraphale scrambling for balance. “This was stupid, I should have known-- Well. No more sleeping for me, not anymore.”

“Crowley--”

“It’s just-- what am I supposed to do without you around, angel? Mope at the cottage?”

Cottage? So he had moved, then? “Crowley--”

“I miss you,” Crowley repeats miserably. “I don’t want to-- It’s lonely, angel. It’s worse than ever before, because when you weren’t speaking to me I could always drop by the bookstore and at least see you through the windows even if-- well. But now you’re gone, back to Heaven and I thought-- I thought maybe in my dreams--”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, pulling his best friend into a hug, his heart breaking for him. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

Crowley chuckles. “It’s fine, figment of my imagination. I don’t-- it’s fine.”

“Crowley, it’s really me,” Aziraphale says gently. “It’s-- well, it’s a bit of a long explanation, but I’m really here. I’m using Gabriel’s old dream walking machine.”

Crowley blinks, pulling away rather violently. “Wait, what?”

“I’m really here,” he repeats, very slowly, clearly enunciating each word.

“How-- how is that possible?” he looks-- distressed, but over what exactly, Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure. 

The angel sighs. “Basically, it involves Gabriel’s dream-walking machine and--”

“Why does Gabriel has a dream walking machine? I didn’t even know those things existed! Why--”

“How is that the most important thing right now?” Aziraphale asks, just a tiny bit exasperated. As far as he knows this dream might end at any moment and that’d mean--

“Right, right,” Crowley says, nodding. “You’re right of course. That’s not important. So, dream-walking machine?” He looks in the verge of a nervous collapse and that cannot be good, Aziraphale thinks. As he understands it, when humans are having disturbing dreams, they tend to wake up and that might also hold true for occult beings so--

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, nodding, keeping his tone gentle and soothing. He briefly considers reaching for his companion’s hands but he thinks that might actually be rather counterproductive. “I’m not entirely sure how much time I have, but-- here I am.” His lips twist in a sad approximation of a smile, but it’s the only thing he can manage right now.

“And-- umm-- what-- that is-- are you--” it seems like Crowley wants to begin a hundred sentences and is having a hard time trying to decide with which one he should start. Aziraphale frowns, feeling a bit at odds: he’d have thought Crowley would be happy to actually talk to him and yet he seems more than a little… well, _terrified_ , really.

“My dear, is everything quite alright?” he asks, finally giving into his wish to reach out for his companion. Crowley blinks, glances down at their joined hands and looks at Aziraphale once more before gulping audibly.

“Yes,” the demon answers finally, after having closed his eyes and taken a deep breath. “It’s just-- I’m a bit… overwhelmed, let’s say. This is not how I pictured this… eh… _dream_ going.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, nodding knowingly. “Yes, I imagine it might be… weird.” 

“Understatement of the century, angel,” Crowley replies with a roll of his eyes. “It’s not-- I mean, I am of course very happy to be actually talking to you but it’s a bit… awkward, you know? This isn’t-- I mean--” he gestures helplessly around them, a might blush spreading across his cheeks. “Well. Please do excuse the excessive… enthusiasm.”

Aziraphale frowns, considering this. He looks around them, taking in the too perfect setting, with the sunny day and the quiet surrounding them. He does not understand why Crowley feels there’s something to forgive about the very lovely scenario, there’s nothing--

 _Oh,_ he thinks, blushing furiously as he thinks back to their first interaction in the dream. Right. That was-- well, it’s not-- it was rather lovely too, even if-- “I wouldn’t-- I mean, I don’t mind it,” he settles for saying finally and Crowley scoffs, slightly annoyed.

“I don’t need your pity, angel.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, uncertain. “You know it’s not that, my dear boy,” he argues softly, staring at their still joined hands. “You know-- I mean-- Surely you know I feel the same way?”

Crowley pulls away, his back at Aziraphale now, holding onto the pond’s rails as if it was a lifeline. “And here I was beginning to think you weren’t actually just a figment of my imagination.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, a bit desperately. “You know I do. Deep down, you know.” He rest a hand over Crowley’s, rubbing his knuckles softly. “I do love you, my dear.”

Crowley’s expression holds utter agony, and it occurs to Aziraphale that this is exactly why he’s always kept his feelings to himself. Why, he wonders, does he have the sudden urge to speak so candidly? “I know,” Crowley murmurs finally, defeatedly. “I also know it can never be.”

Aziraphale hums softly. What can he say now? That he’s sorry? That he wishes things could be different? To what end?

They stand in silence for a while, the world around them perfectly still. London’s days are never this beautiful and Crowley’s dream can never come to pass in real life but--

“How are you doing?” Crowley asks suddenly, breaking the not-quite-comfortable silence they’ve fallen into. “How’s Gabriel treating you?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, realizing they should make use of the opportunity to catch up, rather than to mourn for what they both know can’t be. “I’ve been transfered.”

“Transferred?” Crowley repeats, one eyebrow arched, looking mildly amused. “I can’t imagine that’s a good thing. Who are you working with? Michael? You know Michael is an even bigger wanker than Gabriel so all in all--”

“Ah, no,” Aziraphale interrupts, shaking his head. “With Raphael, actually.”

Crowley arches an eyebrow in surprise. “You don’t say,” he murmurs sarcastically, shaking his head, somewhat amused. “Only Gabriel would think that’s a good idea.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “She’s a little,” and he hesitates, not sure how to explain his growing warmth for the archangel who plunges mortals into each other’s arms, “we understand each other.”

Crowley’s dark lenses don’t actually allow Aziraphale to see his companion’s eyes, but he can tell by the lines drawing together on his forehead that he has narrowed them. It makes Aziraphale feel all funny and so he hurries to clarify. “She’s more familiar with humanity and seems to like Earth well enough. And watching over humans-- well, it’s not that different from what I’ve been doing for eons, so--”

He’s rambling a bit, he realizes, and he’s not putting Crowley at ease at all, although Aziraphale has yet to figure out what his problem is. “Well,” the demon says after a brief tense pause. “I don’t imagine healing is terribly interesting, but better than dealing with Gabriel.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, wondering if he ought to say something about what he’s actually doing with Raphael, but quickly decides it’s not important. If anything, it’s likely to add more awkwardness to their current situation. 

“What about you?” Aziraphale asks after a beat, figuring a change of subject might be for the best. “Have you-- did you leave London as I suggested?”

Crowley sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He has grown it longer and it makes Aziraphale itch with the desire to run his fingers through it, so he links his hands behind his back to stop himself from reaching out. “I did,” Crowley answers finally. “There was no point in staying, with you gone. The cottage you told me about is… nice. You’d have liked it. It has a big room lined with bookshelves. It’s got a great view of the ocean, which you could have happily ignored in favour of a book.”

Aziraphale’s heart gives a little squeeze. He chuckles, but there’s no real humor in it. “And-- Did you-- what did you make of my replacement?”

Crowley snorts. “Poor thing will be running back to Heaven in no time,” he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s just-- they don’t get it, you know? Not like you and me.”

“Well, we were the only ones who saw a problem with the Apocalypse actually taking place, so…” Aziraphale trails off, distracted by the sad smile on Crowley’s lips. His heart aches in unspeakable ways, but he’s too used to keep his feelings to himself to acknowledge it.

“I have a confession to make,” Crowley says, seemingly gathering his courage, turning to him. “I-- I mean, I do like Earth. And I really, _really_ didn’t want to fight a senseless war. But what I really couldn’t abide, was the loss of our… companionship.” He huffs, rolling his eyes. “But in the end, I lost you all the same.”

“You didn’t,” Aziraphale argues, giving into his need to reach out for his companion. “I’m here.”

“You know what I mean,” Crowley replies, shaking Aziraphale’s hand away. “I don’t-- I want you there, angel. With me. In the cottage. In the cottage you meant for us. Or anywhere else, really. I would change the very lovely cottage for a cramped flat in a crappy neighborhood if it meant that I-- that we--” Crowley’s voice breaks and he looks away while Aziraphale’s heart gives another painful squeeze. “I always thought Heaven had no imagination when it came to punishment, but this goes to show they clearly do.” 

There are, Aziraphale supposes, a dozen replies he could give, some more grim than others, but they’d do nothing to make this whole conversation any less painful. He nods in acknowledgement.

“I know this is not-- It’s not perfect,” Aziraphale says after a somewhat tense silence. “But I am here now. For a while, at the very least. And that must count for something.”

Crowley looks at him, a speculative expression on his face. “We should make it count for something,” he says, standing up a bit straighter. “What do you suggest?”

“Well, this _is_ a dream,” Aziraphale says, as a dangerous thought starts forming. Deep down, he knows he shouldn’t. Deep down, he knows this will only make things worse in the long run.

But it’s just a dream. And there’s no harm in dreaming.

“Angel?” Crowley says, barely murmuring, looking like a deer caught in headlights as Aziraphale steps closer to him. They’ve never been too careful about personal space, often standing much closer than what’s probably considered polite at any time in any culture, but this is deliberate. This is Aziraphale stepping close, full of _purpose_. “Don’t do something we’ll both regret,” Crowley pleads and, despite his glasses, Aziraphale can see the way his eyes have zeroed in on his mouth.

“As I recall it, you started it,” Aziraphale argues, standing on his tiptoes to close the distance between them, resting a hand on Crowley’s waist for equilibrium.

“I thought it was a regular dream,” Crowley protests, or attempts too, seeing his voice is barely a whimper.

“It is a dream,” Aziraphale argues calmly, squeezing his companion’s waist softly, in what he hopes is a comforting manner. “There is no harm in dreaming, even if it is of things that could never be.”

Crowley doesn’t argue, although the angel suspects he wants to. As usual, he lets Aziraphale do as he pleases, leaning forward so their lips might meet, yielding to Aziraphale to set the pace.

As kisses go, it’s rather chaste: not at all as Aziraphale always imagined their first kiss would go. It does not taste of their desperate longing and years of barely restrained passion. It’s soft and tender, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before. It does not resemble a first kiss at all, but the sort of kiss long term couples share after a long time apart.

In a way, Aziraphale supposes that’s what they are.

Even if it’s only in their dreams.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

It would have been silly to think that nothing would change, after finally admitting their feelings to one another. Part of the reason why Aziraphale had kept them to himself for so long was because he feared the change: why upset the status quo, particularly when they had settled into a form of routine so comfortable and pleasant.

But now that they actually have, he’s surprised to find that very little actually changes: he realizes they’ve been behaving like a couple all along and although there’s the occasional kiss and tender touch, fundamentally, everything remains the same.

 _How curious_ , Aziraphale thinks. 

Days turn into months and months into a year. Some days, Aziraphale can even forget they’re not actually together: he and Crowley have developed a routine, meeting in Crowley’s dreams almost every day and that has made the distance so much more bearable.

The day will come, he thinks, when Raphael will call him out on his use of the dream walking machine or even worse, Gabriel will find out about it. But Raphael doesn’t seem to mind his disappearances and while he’s fairly certain she knows where he disappeares to, she hasn’t see fit to comment on it.

It’s nice, if not perfect. Enough.

It has to be.

* * *

Aziraphale comes back from one of his usual meetings with Crowley, feeling light and content. So caught up in his own head, he fails to notice how quiet Raphael’s office is, no be-bop playing for once. He strolls into the room, calmly humming to himself, and comes to an abrupt stop after finding there’s someone else in the room.

Gabriel looks at him briefly, but his attention quickly goes back to Raphael, who is glaring daggers at him. If looks could kill, Gabriel would be a very dead Archangel, but then he’s giving as good as he’s getting.

“I think we’re done here,” Raphael says finally, arms firmly crossed in front of her chest. “Kindly show yourself out, brother dear.”

Gabriel turns to Aziraphale, eyes narrowed. “And just where exactly were you, Aziraphale?”

He opens his mouth to reply, although to say what exactly he couldn’t say: he’s never been a very good liar and with Gabriel’s intense stare on him, he finds it even harder to come up with a believable explanation. Just how long was he gone, anyway? Time passes so differently in dreams. And how long has Gabriel been here?

“He was running some errands,” Raphael snaps, shifting to stand in front of Aziraphale now. Gabriel arches an eyebrow, unbelieving, and Raphael huffs. “I do not tell you how to run your department, Gabriel. Kindly extend me the same courtesy.”

Gabriel’s lips turn in an unhappy grimace, but he doesn’t protest, simply leaving the room with a huff, the door closing with a bang behind him. Raphael sighs, running her fingers through her hair, turning to look at Aziraphale.

“Well, that was close,” she says with a flippant veneer, a forced smile on her lips. “What about you? Everything’s alright?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies, perhaps a little too quickly, feeling vaguely guilty. “What--?”

“I really don’t like this,” Raphael tells him, rubbing a hand over her face. “But you’ve given me very little choice.” She turns on her heel sharply, going to sit at the couch and patting the space next to her. “Come. Sit.”

Aziraphale frowns, more than a little confused by this, but he obeys. Raphael bites her lip gently, considering and then shakes her head. “Love is all about choices,” she says seriously. “Love must be chosen. Over fear, over comfort, even over self-preservation. I do not intervene with humans’ choices; I try to guide them, but if they refuse to make the choice, then I can not force their hands.” She taps her fingers against her knee, thinking. “For many years, I have watched people fall in and out of love in many ways, for many reasons, in many places, at many times. And more than once, I’ve wished I could actually intervene in their choices but-- if love is not self-chosen, then it’s meaningless.”

She closes her eyes, an unhappy expression on her face. “I’m going to tell you something,” she declares after a long pause. “And then I’m going to show you something. And either you’ll understand or you won’t, but I cannot continue to intervene.”

Aziraphale gulps, sensing where this is heading, and not liking it one bit. He knows he has failed to make a choice. Standing up with Crowley to stop the Apocalypse-- well, one could argue that was though call, but the stakes were high and when you really stop to think about it, he made the obvious choice. Now, though-- 

“I’ve been watching over Earth since the very beginning,” Raphael starts, brow slightly furrowed, as if she’s thinking very hard about something. “Love has existed from the beginning of time, even if when we did not know what it was when we were newly created. But She created us out of love and in turn, we loved Her. And of course, we loved one another.”

She considers this, biting her lip gently. “But for us to truly understand love, humanity needed to exist. Because when She decided to make humans give them free will… well, that’s when all our troubles started, didn’t they? Isn’t the ability to make choices at the core of Lucifer and his followers’ rebellion?” She pauses, solemn. “And ever since, love has been about choice.”

Raphael stands up and starts pacing franatically, her expression hard to interpret. It looks pained, somewhat and frustrated. “I’ve had many centuries to think about this. Millenia, in fact. And that’s why I watch humans so obsessively-- I want to understand the nature of love. I want to understand where the line is between love and not-love, how can one go from caring so much for someone to actually despising them, I want to understand-- I want to understand what the hell happened to us.” She stops her pacing abruptly, pinching the bridge of her nose in distress. “But I’m getting carried away, that’s not-- that doesn’t have anything to do with this particular case, not quite.”

She sighs, making a chair appear out of thin air, and dropping herself in front of Aziraphale. “As we all were, I was told demons were beyond love. They had chosen to turn their back on Her and so they had turned their back on love. It was perfectly logical, or it seemed like it was, and it’s not as if we had a reason to think otherwise.” She pauses, looking directly at Aziraphale’s eyes, as if reading into his very soul. “And then I saw something on Earth that made me change my mind.”

Aziraphale sighs, looking away. “I do know what you mean. It made me change my mind too.”

Raphael frowns. “Then why--?”

“Because it changed _my_ mind, not everyone’s else. Because there was danger, pursuing that path. And because I was afraid,” the last part he says is quietly, reluctantly. “Of the consequences, yes, but also of the intensity of my own feelings. So you see-- why risk it?” he smiles self-deprecatingly and Raphael’s frown deepens, as she leans forward.

“There was real danger,” she concedes. “And you were afraid of the consequences. Although not only of those of the heavenly kind.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I couldn’t choose him, Raphael. Even now, I’m not sure I can, I’m-- I’m scared.”

The Archangel nods slowly. “Let me show you something,” she says, standing up and pointing at the screen. She hesitates briefly, looking at him over her shoulder. “I don’t intend for you to feel guilty, Aziraphale. I just want you to understand.”

And with that, she turns to face the screen once more.

* * *

The screen shows a location Aziraphale is not at all familiar with and yet it’s instantly recognizable. The cottage is small and homey looking, but there’s a sense of… emptiness permeating it. The living room, while cluttered, doesn’t really feel lived in: it’s like someone just stuck a bunch of stuff in there in an effort to make it look less empty.

On the couch is Crowley. There’s a blanket bunched in the corner, which suggests that’s where he’s been taking his naps. His usual glasses are gone and it makes Aziraphale feel guilty: the demon does not like to take off his glasses, not even in when it’s just the two of them, since it makes him feel exposed, and the only reason he’s not wearing them now is because he believes himself alone.

Judging by the anxious way Raphael is biting her lip, she probably feels a bit guilty too.

Crowley rubs a hand over his face, expression despondent. His fingers press against his lips and Aziraphale recalls all too well the way they had kissed earlier. A small smile flickers on the demon’s face, but it falters and fades.

Crowley drags himself to his feet, leaves the room. His steps are slow and his shoulders hunched, as if a great weight rested over them. Aziraphale’s heart constricts inside his chest.

The screen turns off.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Raphael says, exiting the office quietly, although Aziraphale barely notices, too caught up on his own thoughts to pay anyone any mind.

It feels like a great weight has been put on top of his shoulders.

In a way, he supposes that’s true.


	5. Chapter 5

Contrary to popular belief, angels tend to be somewhat selfish.

The flaw comes from their own belief that they’re the _good guys,_ which means they can’t do any wrong. This belief leads them to think that simply by doing their own will, they’re serving God’s will.

So it’s very rare for an angel to stop to think about others’ feelings _._

Of course Aziraphale has always cared about Crowley. Of course. But because of his underlying angelic arrogance and Crowley’s own tendency to let the angel get away with pretty much everything, the scales have always been a little tipped in Aziraphale’s favour.

He cannot say he’s not been aware of this fact or that he has not, on occasion, even taken advantage of it.

But this-- 

Aziraphale sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He had known, of course, what a colossally bad idea it was to indulge in the illusion of a relationship in the realm of dreams. He had known and yet--

But that, he supposes, it’s not the real important thing. What’s done is done and all the guilt and self pity in the world won’t make one tiny bit of difference now. No, what matters now is what he’s going to do about it.

 _Love is about choice,_ he thinks.

And it’s high time he makes this one.

* * *

Aziraphale clears his throat in the doorway, making Raphael look in his direction. The Archangel watches him in silence for a beat and then she smiles softly, eyes shining with delight. “Did you want to tell me something, Aziraphale?” she asks, turning her whole attention to him, and for a brief moment, Aziraphale finds himself terrified of speaking the words he’s been practicing. But then he remembers what the Archangel showed him the day before and that steels his resolve.

“I’m going back to Earth,” he announces. The declaration shouldn't leave him so calm all of sudden. He should be nervous about the consequences, at the very least, but he cannot find it within himself the need to question his decision, not anymore.

“Are you?” Raphael asks, leaning back on her seat. “Just like that. Without asking for permission?”

Aziraphale gulps, but nods all the same. “Yes,” he declares and while his voice trembles just the slightest bit, he does not take back his words. 

“Why?” Raphael asks, head tilted to the side, an impish smile on her lips. She knows, of course, but she wants to make sure Aziraphale is aware of what he’s doing and that he’s doing it for the right reasons.

There are many ways in which he could answer the question, Aziraphale thinks, but he chooses the simplest one. “I do not belong in Heaven anymore,” he declares, his voice oddly steady. A year ago, such declaration would have terrified him: hell, even yesterday it would have scared him out of his mind but today-- “I want to go home.”

“And your home… is on Earth?”

“Yes.” He knows the Archangel understands all this and that she very much approves of his reasons, but years of hiding such thoughts, even from himself, make him anxious, slightly worried about what will happen next.

Raphael stares at him, a smile still on her lips. “Why?” she asks, eyes alight with mischief and Aziraphale huffs, full of fondness. He’ll miss her, he thinks, but he really does not belong here anymore.

“Home is where the heart is,” he quips nervously and Raphael giggles, standing up with a tiny jump, clapping her hands together.

“Good,” she says, hugging him close, while he gapes in surprise. “I must admit, I’ll miss having an assistant,” she confesses, letting go of him. “But you were never mine to keep, Principality Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiles, his eyes feeling a little moist. “Thank you,” he whispers, knowing she understands. The Archangel smiles, squeezing his arm gently.

“I did nothing at all,” she replies easily. “Always remember Aziraphale: love is a choice. It cannot be forced, but a little encouragement can go a long way.” She winks. “Now off you go. He’s waited for you long enough.”

 _Yes,_ Aziraphale thinks. 

Six millenia is more than enough time.

* * *

Aziraphale rings the doorbell and waits, stomach twisting with anxiety. He could have miracled himself inside the little cottage, of course, but it felt a little intrusive. He had meant it to be their home together,, but Crowley had to move in alone. Just showing up inside, unannounced, would be presuming too much.

Oh, he knows Crowley will have him. Still, it’s only polite.

The door opens, revealing a sleepy demon standing on the threshold rubbing his eyelids. Aziraphale’s heart swells with affection and he’s hard pressed not to pull the demon in his arms and kiss him silly.

“Angel?” Crowley whispers, softly, full of wonder. His lips start curving into a bright smile, but then he frowns, confused. “Is this a dream?” he asks, soft and wary and pained, body tense and Aziraphale resolves right there and then that he’ll do his best to ensure his demon never has to wonder if his love is a dream.

“No, dearest,” he says, stepping forward, cupping Crowley’s beloved face delicately. “I’m really here.”

“But-- what-- Heaven won’t--”

“I don’t care,” Aziraphale announces, tone firm but gentle. “I’ve chosen you.”

Crowley looks at him as if he’s done something unbearably wonderful, his whole face lighting up with a smile despite the tears shining in his eyes. They fall into each other arms, holding tight, almost desperately, even knowing that they’ll never have to let go again and Aziraphale thinks that yes, he made the right choice. And from now forward, he knows it’s the choice he’ll continue to make, whatever might come.

Because love is always the right choice.

* * *

The image on the screen fades away as the cottage door closes behind the pair and Raphael smiles softly to herself. She wipes away the tear that has escaped her eyes, happy and relieved. There was a moment when she was honestly worried they weren’t going to make it, that Aziraphale would simply decide he wasn’t ready to take the risk (and that he’d never be). 

She starts to do a little victory dance, but just then something on the screen grabs her attention once more. One of her dots is blinking bright red and she groans.

“I swear I don’t even know why I bother with you anymore, William,” she says annoyedly, as the screen turns to show a new image. “Hopeless, the both of you,” she continues, rubbing her temples tiredly.

She does know why she continues to bother with them, though-- Love is an amazing gift and sometimes people just need a little push in the right direction. Everyone should get the chance to experience love, even if they’re a little thickheaded. 

_Especially if they’re a little tickheaded_ , she thinks to herself, remembering her most recent triumph.

The world would be a much happier place if humans (and ethereal beings, to be fair) realized that love is the most powerful force in the universe.

She starts humming to herself, happy despite knowing her job will never be done. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing, because as she’s told everyone willing to listen, love is a marvelous thing to witness.

 _“All you need is love,”_ she signs quietly to herself, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the speakers, humming as the first part of the song starts playing, raising the volume with pointed flickers of her fingers as it goes. “ _All you need is love, love is all you need.”_

And that’s the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading and don’t forget to check out the rest of the fics & art from the bang :)


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